


It's Awfully Different Without You

by Ladyfeets



Series: Ain't No Sunshine [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I'd call it melancholy, Light Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Teen for language, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyfeets/pseuds/Ladyfeets
Summary: John makes bolognese for one.





	It's Awfully Different Without You

Sunday nights, John makes bolognese. Has since med school. He makes enough for two lunches of leftovers, plus one midnight snack. He's humming along to some old jazz on Pandora as he chops tomatoes.

 

_Missed the Saturday dance, heard they crowded the floor._

 

His mobile beeps. He wipes his hands on his apron and answers -

 

"This is Watson"

 

"I know who you are, you little git." Greg chides gently. "You never said if you're coming down the pub tonight."

 

Another NSY outing. Another night of darts and pints, and sad glances his way when they think he's not looking. Donovan and Anderson playing footsie under the table. He realizes he's been silent for several moments.

 

"Look, mate." Greg's gravels, "You don't have to say. I know it's..."

 

John sags against the worktop. 

 

_Couldn't bear it without you_

 

"Maybe next time, yeah?", he sighs.

 

"Yeah. Don't be a stranger, John."

 

"Yeah, give me a call."

 

_Don't get around much anymore._

 

He thinks of the first night he dragged Sherlock out with Greg and Dimmock. He got caught up in their easy banter for ten or fifteen minutes before he noticed Sherlock was nearly silent beside him. He glanced over and caught those grey eyes, wide and so lost. He could see it all- Sherlock back on the playground, in the luncheon hall, on the campus quad, wanting to fit in. For someone to talk to.

 

John had wracked his brain desperately from something to say to draw Sherlock into the conversation. He held his eyes for a moment, then simply threw him arm over the back of Sherlock's chair. Dimmock cleared his throat and rubbed his nose. Greg didn't even blink. 

But Sherlock seemed to bloom under his arm. "Did I tell you about the time I solved the theft of a beehive?", he offered shyly.

John caught Greg's eyes just before he started to roll them. The unspoken words were clear between the two men -

 

**You let him have this. You let him tell his fucking bee story or I swear to fucking Christ ...**

 

Greg jerked his chin down in that way old mates do when they barely even need words anymore.

"Edgemere, you said? Was that the one with the axe in the tree?", Greg ventured.

 

Sherlock lit up and continued his story. The conversation flowed easily and hours passed. John yawned and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder before he realized what he'd done.

 

"Let's allow these two old geezers a kip.", Greg said, throwing him a wink.

 

_I thought I'd visit the club. Made it far as the door._

 

They walked home then, shivering in the light drizzle. Silent for two blocks, then the backs of John's knuckles brushed up against Sherlock's wrist. Suddenly warm fingers were wrapped around his. He glanced up but Sherlock's gaze was resolutely forward.

"Thank you" and a tiny squeeze.

 

_They'd have asked me about you. Don't get around much anymore._

 

Their hands dropped and John talked about Dimmock's sad attempt at growing a moustache to fill the silence.

 

***

 

John's bolognese is bubbling along nicely. Maybe a drizzle of wine wouldn't hurt.

He opens the mid-range Chianti he picked up on a whim. Pours a bit into the sauce, then pours a bit in a mug.

The sauce needs to simmer for 30 minutes, John sets a timer on his phone. He relaxes into the sofa and lets his mind wander. The wine sands down the the edges from the day as he sinks into the cushions.

 

_Well darling, I guess that my mind's more at ease_

 

He thinks of long nights by the fireside. The nights he'd stay up typing up their latest case or reading as Sherlock stared into the fire or went over his notes.

Sometimes Sherlock's red eyes or creased brow would make it evident the gears in his brilliant mind were getting stuck.

John would toss aside his laptop or medical journal.

 

"Talk it through with me." John would say, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Like I'm an idiot."

 

_But nevertheless, why stir up memories?_

 

John's timer went off. He stood up to stir the sauce and saw his pension check sitting on the kitchen table. He thought briefly of the little blonde at the bank who gave him big eyes every time he went to make a deposit.

 

_Been invited on dates._

 

_Could have gone, but what for?_

 

He tried to imagine taking her to dinner, but every scenario ended with Sherlock swanning into the restaurant with an urgent case.

But that life was gone now. He poured another mug of wine and started to boil water for his pasta.

 

_It's awfully different without you._

 

_Don't get around much anymore._


End file.
